


A Slip of Luck - Fic tennis

by foxmoon, LostinFic



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, fic tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 16:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14548431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmoon/pseuds/foxmoon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Hannah is a P.I. specialized in investigating cases of cheating partners, and Hardy is the author of popular mystery novels. Both are down on their luck when it comes to relationships.But a phone number found in a forgotten coat may be their chance at love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each in turn we wrote a short chapter. Neither of us knew what the other would write before our turn - it had not been beta’d or previewed. The only thing we had agreed on beforehand was to use the prompt: "Number found in clothing AU".  
> Here's the result, we hope you enjoy it!

Hannah looked up from her book and stared at her target: mid-forties, tall, dark hair, glasses. He was sitting at the counter of the coffee shop, tapping his fingertips as he waited for his order. A student passed behind his chair and dropped her pen and notebooks. Her target immediately bent down to help the student. Meanwhile, his macchiato and brownies arrived. The waitress had messed up his order, but he didn’t make a fuss about it. 

He looked like a decent man, she hoped he wasn’t a cheater.

Four years of getting paid by women to test their partner’s faithfulness had rendered Hannah cynical about love and relationships. What had started as a half-assed plan to help out a friend had become an agency with several employees. In this age of Tinder, the demand for her services grew every year. 

It happened that the woman was mistaken. Throughout her career, she’d had her fair share of men turning down her advances. Unfortunately, in those cases, more often than not, Hannah uncovered other problems such as substance abuse or an online poker addiction. Even when there truly was nothing wrong with their husbands, the realization of how little they trust their partner was often the beginning of the end for her clients.

Despite it all, a spark of hope still surprised Hannah from time to time.

Hannah looked up again, hoping to catch her target’s eyes. He was good looking. That helped. Ugly men were wary of a beautiful woman chatting them up, she had to employ average-looking girls for those jobs.

The man’s attention didn’t waver from his brownies. Time for a more direct approach. Hannah walked up to him and tapped his shoulder, putting on her most charming smile. A pair of bright blue eyes assessed her. “May I help you?” the man asked.

“Hello!” She tucked her hair behind her ears, affecting an air of bashfulness. “I’m sorry to bother you but I saw you–”

The man’s mobile phone rang. He answered, offering her an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right there,” he said. He pocketed his phone and dropped a ten pound note on the counter. He left the coffeehouse without a second glance her way.

With a sigh, Hannah sloped down on a chair. The man was busier than the Prime Minister, it had taken her three weeks to “accidentally” meet him alone. All for naught. She’d have to pass the assignment on to Bambi now. She hated delegating. Especially, in a sensitive case like this one. His wife was one of the UK’s top surgeons and beloved by the public for her heartfelt interventions in the media. If only that woman could feel as confident in her relationship as she did with a scalpel in hand.

As Hannah was about to call Bambi, she noticed a coat draped across the back of the chair next to her. Her target’s jacket no doubt. Hannah smiled as she grabbed it. Outside the coffeehouse, she inspected the pockets: no wallet but a paper with a phone number on it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Earlier that afternoon_

Hardy glared over the crowded cafe. Not an empty table in sight. He’d have to sit at the counter with his back to the entire place and risk idle chit chat with the barista. Or worse, the person next to him. He cursed under his breath, and cut a direct path toward the empty chair at the end of the bar. At least he wasn’t here to write.

There were few public places in which he felt comfortable enough to work on his novels. He hadn’t been to this one before, and so far it gave him mixed feelings. It had once been a pub, and so the sturdy booths, secluded corners, and dark, old architecture appealed to him. But the centre of the room and its many sofas and chairs had been claimed by sprawled out university students. He peered past the espresso machines to where flavoured syrups for coffee concoctions and tins of tea had replaced the shelves of booze behind the counter. He found the hybrid nature of his surroundings somewhat inspiring, so he took out his yellow notepad to jot down a few setting ideas whilst he waited for the solicitor he hoped to interview.

In general, he tried to steer clear of courtroom scenes in his novels, preferring to focus on the the mysteries that plagued the world of Broadchurch and the surly detective there to solve them, but his latest plot kind of needed it, and his editor conveniently had a solicitor friend who agreed to help.

At last the solicitor arrived. He was the conventionally handsome type, with a put on sort of kindness and too much cologne. Probably cheated on his wife with his legal secretary. The solicitor in his novel was a woman, so Hardy decided to keep his questions on procedure instead of personal experience. All in all, the man hadn’t been as vapid as Hardy assumed.

But Hardy was only able to ask couple of questions before Daisy phoned. She’d sprained her wrist at school, and he needed to take her to urgent care. Life as a single father with an ex wife who had moved to Chicago with her new husband meant he had no one else to turn to in situations like this. He departed with hurried apologies, and the solicitor reassured him that it was no big deal. That he could use a wind-down moment and had been eyeing the brownies on the display case the entire time.

It was not until late evening before Hardy noticed his mac coat was missing. A thorough search through the flat and the car came up empty. He didn’t remember having it at the urgent care center where they’d spent over two hours for Daisy’s poor wrist. Didn’t recall having it at the restaurant where he’d taken her to get a burger after her rough afternoon. Had to be the coffee shop. But when he phoned to see if it’d been found, it hadn’t been. At least all he had in the pockets, that he could recall,  was his editor’s new mobile number.


	3. Chapter 3

An elegant white brick building in Chelsea housed the headquarters of  _Dejour Investigation_.  Only a minimalist sign in the window indicated their presence. Hannah walked in through the back entrance. Climbing the stairs up to the top floor was hell, but the large skylight was worth being so high. The office space was open and bright, nothing like the dark offices of private investigators in movies, although she did keep a flask in her desk drawer as a nod to those classics (and for those days when nothing seemed to go her way).

In the employee’s common room, Bambi was sat on the couch, a plastic tray of sushis balanced on her knees. She waved at her boss with a pair of chopsticks. “Hey babes! Where’ve you been? You look like shit.” Once again, Bambi’s concern came out more rude than she’d intended. Hannah smiled, tight lipped.

“Thanks, Bambi. A pipe broke in my house yesterday, had to wait for the plumber, couldn’t take a shower.” She sighed exaggeratedly. “I missed a whole day and I’m behind on work. Any calls for me?”

Bambi quickly chewed and swallowed a sashimi. “On your desk. There’s a journalist who wants an interview. ” She offered Hannah a California roll. “How did it go with the surgeon’s husband yesterday?”

“Couldn’t talk to him, he had to go. But he left his Mac behind.” She held up the raincoat, a classic cut in washed-out black– not the fashionably vintage kind of washed-out black but the result of many rainy days and public transport. In the pockets, she found a broken pen and a receipt for five novels bought at an independent bookstore (they were reading the same Icelandic thriller, she noticed). And, more curiously, she found sand. Come to think of it, it smelled like the sea.

Bambi cringed when Hannah sniffed the coat. “So, I guess you have an excuse to call him now. How will you explain how you got his number, though?”

“Not sure yet. But there was a number in his pocket, I’ll start with that. Could you look it up for me?”

While Bambi entered the phone number in various databases they subscribed to, Hannah called Mrs. Hamadi, her client. Mrs. Hamadi didn’t recognize the number and immediately jumped to the conclusion that it belonged to some woman her husband had flirted with. “We don’t know that yet,” Hannah reassured her, “he’s a solicitor, it could be a client or a witness… I’ll be working on your case all afternoon and all night too if I have to.”

“Thank you, miss Baxter.”

As she hung up, her cell phone pinged with a text message from James: “ _Still up for tonight?_ ”

“Shit.” They had gone out on two dates, but she had yet to tell him about her job. It had a way of killing a relationship in the bud. It made men uneasy that she investigated cheating husbands by seducing them. When it didn’t freak them out from the start, she was the one to freak out because she knew the telltale signs of infidelity too well. She’d been single for almost two years now and only recently decided to give dating another shot. A spark of hope still surprised her from time to time.

“Nothing,” Bambi said, giving back the piece of paper. “I can tell you it’s a mobile, probably a new number.”

Hannah closed the door behind Bambi, took a minute to think up a story, then gave the mysterious number a call from her work phone. A woman answered.

“Hi! I’m calling because I found someone’s coat, your number was in the pocket and I’m looking to contact–”

“Yes, he told me about that. Honestly, I don’t know why he cares so much about that old Mac. Probably thinks it makes him look like a detective or something.” A sort of indulgent affection colored her words. It sounded like this person knew Mr. Hamadi pretty well.

“So, could you help me contact him so I can give it back to him?” Hannah asked.

“You can drop it off at my office.”

“Actually, I was kind of hoping to give it to him directly.”

“Why is that?”

“Well… this is a bit embarrassing, but before I saw his coat, I saw him, and he looked… nice.”

“He’s not interested.”

Was that a hint of jealousy? Hannah smiled. She hated that Mrs. Hamadi was right about her husband cheating, but she loved succeeding at her job.

 “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Hannah asked.

The woman didn’t give her a name, only the address of her office, insisting Hannah brought over the coat. Hannah vaguely committed to doing so and gave the woman her phone number. “In case he’d prefer another way to get back his coat.” Let him decide whether he’s interested or not.

Mulling over what she’d learned, Hannah fiddled with the yellow paper with the number on. The holes at the top indicated it had been torn from a notepad. She’d been so focused on the phone number, she hadn’t noticed the faint scribbles at the back: “beach, in the dunes? Abandoned beach house?, off season?, axe in the car, or romantic getaway, poison in champagne, cliffs: look like accident or suicide.” Hannah’s blood ran cold. Was he planning a murder?


	4. Chapter 4

Hardy crumpled up the page he had been working on all morning and tossed it to the bin in the corner. It knocked down a few other wadded papers from the growing pile of discarded scenes and dull paragraphs. With only one chapter left to complete before his deadline, he was more on edge than ever to get this absolutely perfect. A yawn claimed him and he rubbed his weary eyes. God’s sake, he’d been up nearly the whole night. **  
**

His mobile rang. He picked it up and glared at the time—8:30 AM—and sighed at the name on the screen. Ellie Miller, his editor.

“Hello,” he said, letting annoyance show in his gravelly voice.

“You promised a chapter in my inbox by 8.”

“I’m almost finished.”

“You haven’t been up all night, have you? You don’t really do your best work when you’re sleep deprived.”

“I slept a couple hours. You wanted a bloody chapter by 8.”

“I’ll give you till 10, then I have to kick the deadline another two weeks and the publisher won’t like that, as you know. Work with me here.” Ellie sighed.

“I’ve got the finishing scene left to go and I’ll bring it to you in person.”

“Right, then I’ll let you get back to it. Oh, you know that coat you said went missing? Someone found it.”

A smidge of sleep fog lifted at this news. He’d convinced himself to buy a new one, but he had a difficult time finding something exactly like it. “Good. Wait, how d’you know?”

“You had my new mobile number in your pocket. She seemed…” Ellie hesitated. “Seemed sweet on you. Eager to give it to you in person, which I found strange. I assumed she must’ve been an overzealous fan, so I arranged for her to bring it here instead of contacting you directly.”

Hardy was too bone tired to take offense at the notion that it was strange for a woman to be interested in him. Not that he’d have taken much offense otherwise. Lately it bore more truth than naught. He cast his memory back to that afternoon, albeit sluggishly. There were too many people in the bookshop to recall details about them, but there could have been a woman reading alone in a booth, and another in the sofa behind him. There had also been one sitting a few stools down at the bar.

“Did she give a name?”

“No..”

“What did she say about me, exactly?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, hating how pitiful he sounded asking such a question.

“That you looked nice. Listen, Hardy—” again, she hesitated with sigh. “I’m not so sure this woman has the best intentions after looking into her number. In any case, do you really think it’s a good idea to date some random woman who found your coat? Becca literally just dumped you two weeks ago, and your ex wife moved to Chicago leaving you here with a daughter to care for. You’ve been a bit of a mess lately, if I’m being honest, and it’s affecting your work. You need a few months to yourself and I need to edit this book by the deadline.”

“I don’t…” Hardy ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. She didn’t have to drag him across the coals like that, but she was right as usual. He put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter. “I’ll bring it up there by 10.”


	5. Chapter 5

For the last 45 minutes, Hannah had been munching on the same fast food breakfast sandwich. A bit of egg fell on her chest and left a greasy stain on her white blouse. The private investigator life was nowhere near as glamorous as some people thought it to be. 

Hannah wiped off the egg and returned her gaze to the street window and 4509 Fenchurch street. The woman she’d talked to on the phone worked for a publishing company at this address.

The old coat was in her tote bag by her side, but she hadn’t decided on going in yet.

Since finding these notes about a murder, Hannah was wary of meeting Mr. Hamadi. Bambi had calmed her down (after freaking out too), pointing out no murderer would write down his ideas and leave such blatant evidence. Still, some people had gaydars, Hannah had a creepdar, and it was beeping.

Her patience paid off five minutes later when Mr. Hamadi walked out of the building with a woman. A curly brunette in a bright orange windbreaker. They laughed together, but the distance between them told her they weren’t lovers. It could be that they were careful out in public, but Hannah had a good instinct for those things.

Hannah left the restaurant and crossed the street. She pretended to look at a dress in a window display near her target. She hoped to catch snippets of their conversation, but the traffic was too loud.

Something else bothered her about Mr. Hamadi: he wore a classic Burberry trench coat. Why would he care about an old raincoat?

Hannah followed them carefully, keeping a good distance. When they hailed a taxi, she snapped some pictures with her phone before they entered the car. She would show them to Mrs. Hamadi, in case she recognized the woman. After all, she could be his sister-in-law or a cousin.

Somewhat satisfied, she pocketed her mobile and turned on her heels. She bumped right into a tall man, and lost her footing.

“Why are you spying on Ellie?” he asked.


	6. Chapter 6

Hardy finally finished the chapter a half hour after he spoke with Ellie. He’d prefer to put it in a drawer and look at it again in a couple of weeks, but given that he had to maintain his contract of three books a year, it was what it bloody was. He prepared the manuscript for delivery, and tossed it to the kitchen table. A short kip was in order. **  
**

But he couldn’t seem to rest. There was another story he wanted to tell, one that had been relegated to scraps of paper and margins of research for his serial detective novels about Broadchurch. It embarrassed him to even consider pitching it to his agent: a young adult love story between a lad who wanted to be a detective, and a lass who had witnessed a supernatural murder. He dozed for a while with scenes flitting through his mind. The supernatural element was out of his wheelhouse, but he had a dream a few months ago that he couldn’t shake.

He finally left his flat, groggy and slightly disheveled from sleep. At least the walk to his editor’s office helped wake him up a bit. As he approached, he saw a pretty blonde woman peering through a shop window. He didn’t think much of it until he noticed how she kept glancing toward Ellie and her solicitor friend. He knew very little about the man, other than he was her divorce solicitor and Ellie had gone to university with his wife. The solicitor climbed into the cab where Ellie’s sister waited. Now that was strange.

The blonde eavesdropper discreetly snapped photos of them with her mobile, and turned to leave the scene when she bumped right into him. He helped steady her footing, but didn’t hesitate to confront her about what he’d just witnessed before the sweet smell of her hair right under his nose could distract him.

She squinted subtly up at him, and it made him feel a bit like a suspect. A lovely, bright smile followed to erase all evidence that she’d been measuring him up. His breath hitched in his throat and he blinked, effectively thrown off guard. She took a step back and adjusted the strap of a tote bag over her shoulder.

“Spying? I’m just waiting for Ellie to be free so I can deliver something. You know her too, then?”

He looked over her shoulder toward Ellie, who now stood alone with her hands on her hips, watching them curiously. His friend’s earlier concern about the woman who wanted to hand-deliver his mac dropped into his hazy brain. “Erm, she’s my editor, and I believe you have my coat.”


	7. Chapter 7

Hannah wasn’t proud of how long it took her to understand what was going on. Her face caught up fast– plastering on a charming smile– while her mind still reeled.

The man before her seemed hazy too. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he had worked all night. But, somehow, he also looked like he had just woken up with his hair flat on one side of his head and sticking up on the other side.

“Erm, she’s my editor, and I believe you have my coat,” he said.

“Your coat?”

He pointed her tote bag from which a black sleeve hung.

“Oh! Yes. Okay. That’s yours.” And the scribbled notes about a murder too. She lost her smile and took a step back.

He held out his hand impatiently, and she pulled the coat out of her tote bag. A book fell out at the same time, he caught it and read the author’s name. “Andar Ingólfsson? He’s good. Guess my books aren’t the only ones you like.”

“What books?”

“The Broadchurch murder mysteries,” Ellie chipped in. “You insisted on giving him the coat yourself, I thought you were a fan.”

Hannah’s jaw went slack. He was Alec Hardy. She did love his novels. Something clicked in her mind. “You’re not a murderer!”

Alec looked at her like she was crazy, and Hannah quickly explained the notes she’d found. After a few tensed seconds, his wrinkled brow softened and he smiled. He looked about ten years younger then, and Hannah found herself smiling in return.

“I was taken in by the police once,” Alec said. “They thought a murder in my book was too much like one of their cold cases.”

Hannah laughed a little too loud. She twisted a strand of hair around her index. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being interrogated by D.I. Thomas,” she said, referring to his main character.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “If you two are quite done flirting, we’ve got a new chapter to look at.” Alec glared at her.

After an awkward series of thank yous and good day, and a handshake that was almost a hug, Alec parted ways with Hannah.

In the taxi on the way to her office, Hannah called Bambi to tell her what had happened.

“I didn’t realize you were such a nerd,” Bambi said.

“What?”

“You have a crush on a writer.”

“I don’t have a crush!”

Bambi emitted the most sarcastic “Mmhmm” Hannah had ever heard. “Then how comes you totally forgot about Hamadi?”

“I didn’t forget,” Hannah lied.

“Mmhmm.”

“Stop doing that.” Hannah rang off.

She chastisted herself for getting so easily distracted. She vowed not to think about Alec Hardy for the rest of the day and focus solely on her work. Unfortunately, the two were linked via Ellie Miller, the editor.

Mrs. Hamadi had required the strongest discretion about her husband, could she have something to hide? Something her husband wished to disclose in a tell-all book? His wife was a public figure after all, just this morning she was on the BBC again to talk about the health situation in refugee camps. A beloved doctor with a dark past?

Hannah came home late from work, her brain overfilled with questions and suspicions. Without eating first, she undressed and crawled right under the covers. She hoped to stay awake long enough to read another chapter of the Ingólfsson thriller. But the book was nowhere to be found; Alec had kept it.

Realizing they had a reason to meet again, Hannah smiled. But then remembered her tendency to use all sorts of things as bookmarks. She hoped there was nothing embarrassing between the pages of this one. 


	8. Chapter 8

Hardy followed Ellie up to her office and prepared himself a cuppa while she read over his chapter. Despite the lack of sleep, he felt invigorated, so much so that he accidentally put too much sugar in the mug. There was a lightness in his chest that kept him from complaining about it, even to himself. He returned to Ellie’s office from her flat’s small kitchenette and paced by her window.

Ellie flipped to the next page. “Will you sit down. I can’t work with you lurching about.”

Hardy settled into the sofa by the window, but it did little to help his restlessness. He bounced his knee and fidgeted with his coat. A book stuck awkwardly from the pocket of his mac, and he took it out only to find that it wasn’t his book. It was hers. He flipped through the pages and found a receipt for Indian takeaway, a five pound note, and a written message with a date and time, possibly an appointment.

“Did she ever give you a name?” Hardy asked.

Ellie looked over the edge of the bundle of papers. “Hannah Baker, Baxter, something.”

“That explains the eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping?” Ellie said distractedly. She made a face at his chapter, and wrote a long note in the margin. Hardy tried to peer over to see where she was in the chapter, but she leaned away from him.

“Caught her taking photos of your solicitor and pretending not to listen in on your conversation.”

Ellie put the paper down and stared at him. “Oh, god, that’s right! She’s a private investigator. Remember, I looked into her a bit when I thought she might be some nutter fan of yours.”

“But it’s not me, it’s what’s-his-name. She found my coat on the same day I met with him and now this morning. Know what she investigates? Maybe your ex put her up to it? She’s trying to find dirt on him to ruin the case.”

Ellie set aside Hardy’s chapter and began looking something up on the computer. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh no!”

“What? What is it?” Hardy sat forward.

“She’s hired to sniff out affairs! But that means Hamadi’s wife thinks he’s cheating on her. And now My sister’s been having lunch with him. She’s his legal secretary. Shit.”

Hardy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Doesn’t mean anything necessarily, but you’re the one who kept telling me not to assume everyone’s unfaithful.”

“My therapist said that and my sister isn’t exactly the most virtuous.” Ellie began looking something up on the computer.

Hardy looked at the receipt.  _Mumbai Sapphire Express. Chicken korma, matar paneer, extra naan_. He suddenly felt very hungry. “What was the name of her practice again?”

Ellie read from her screen. “Dejour Investigation. Hannah Baxter. There’s not much here.”

He looked it up on his mobile. There was a phone number, but what if she had other employees? An assistant?  _A boyfriend?_  He pocketed his mobile, and felt his stomach swoop.

“You gonna finish that today?” He asked, knot in his throat.

Ellie closed her browser and her eyes, collecting herself. “What’s gotten into me. I’ve read too many of your detective stories. Yes, yes, I’m almost finished.”

When at last Ellie finished, he returned home to make the edits (which on the whole, weren’t nearly a bad as he feared). With a yawn, he sent her the final manuscript file and finally got in a bloody nap.

That evening he shared Indian takeaway at the kitchen table with Daisy. It had nothing to do with the pretty woman whose book he’d accidentally pilfered, but he was glad his daughter was clueless either way. The receipt just gave him a craving. When Daisy disappeared into her room to do homework, he went out to his balcony and stared at the number on his mobile for Dejour Investigation.  

He really shouldn’t do this. It was stupid - but he did have her book, and no other way to get in touch with her. With a deep breath, he pressed the button to dial the number. 


	9. Chapter 9

Hannah’s phone rang. “Where the bloody hell are you?” she shrieked. **  
**

“Sorry?”

“There’s water up to my knees! Bring your arse over here.” She pushed another towel under the sink to absorb the water leaking from a pipe. “Mr. Nowak?”

“No, it’s Alec Hardy. I’m calling because I have your book. What’s going on?”

“I had a bloody burst pipe a few days ago, and the plumber who repaired it did a shit job cause it’s burst again. I called him a half-hour ago and he’s not here yet.”

“I’ll come over and help you.”

Barefoot and trousers pushed up to his knees, Alec twisted a wrench uselessly around the pipe while Hannah watched over his shoulder.

So far, all he’d done was hold the towels while she looked frantically around the house for the valve to stop the flow of water. And now this clumsy handling of a wrench. She held back a giggle. “You don’t actually know anything about plumbing, do you?”

“I do! I know things about pipes.”

Hannah indulged him and let him work. She did like the sight of him with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the look of intense focus on his face.

He dropped the wrench and cursed. He ran a wet hand through his hair and pinched his lips together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a writer, I’m not handy. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Thanks for trying to help anyway.” It was endearing that he’d rushed to her help despite the late hour and barely knowing her.

“I hope I didn’t make it worse,” he said.

They looked at each other and laughed.

He stood up and stretched his back with a groan, then offered her a hand to pull her up to her feet as well.

They wrung the soaked towels into the bathtub and mopped the floor until the plumber arrived. They let him work in the bathroom, and returned to the first floor.

“I guess I should go now,” he said.

“If that’s what you want... You don’t have to. I can make us a cuppa. You can’t go out with your clothes all wet.”

He looked down at his blue button-up and the light splashes on it. “Yeah, okay.”

Hannah tried to fill the kettle only to remember the water was shut off. She offered Alec a whiskey instead. While she fixed their drinks, he browsed the bookcases framing the fireplace.

“Your novels are in my bedroom,” she said.

“I wasn’t looking for that.”

“Right, you’re not that full of yourself.”

“I try not to be.” He took the proffered glass. “I was returning your book, but I can’t figure out where it goes.”

“They’re not in alphabetical order. The books with a blue spine go in the guest bedroom,” she explained. Only shades of white and grey for the living room.

“Right.”

They talked about books and the weather and house chores, but small talk was obviously not his forte. He kept a hand in his pocket, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Hannah patted the sofa cushion beside her in invitation, hoping to put him at ease.

“So you’re a private investigator,” he said.

“How did you know?”

He explained Ellie’s research. “We cross-referenced a few things.”

“Cross-referenced? Who’s the detective now?”

“I write one, I’m bound to pick up a few tricks.” He shrugged. “So your job, that’s really great. It must be brilliant.”

“You do realize I tempt men into adultery for a living?”

The way his mouth opened without a word coming out told her had not, in fact, realized that.

“Yeah. That’s how most men react… including my latest date.” When she’d finally made time to see James again, she’d told him the truth, and he’d all but fled the restaurant. Somehow he thought she was no more trustworthy than the men she investigated. “I’ve seen what getting cheated on does to people, I’ve had it done to me, I could never do that to someone. I don’t sleep with those men, I just–” Her voice trembled with anger, so she clenched her jaw shut. She hadn’t meant to unload her personal problems on Alec, but she was still upset, and the plumbing problems combined with lack of sleep made it harder to control herself.

“There are other fish in the sea,” he said lamely.

She smiled tightly and curled her legs under herself. She redirected the conversation to how she’d ended up in possession of his coat. She remained vague about the Hamadi case, both out of respect for her client, and because she didn’t want to make Alec feel like she was using him to advance her case. He didn’t have the same qualms though, he asked her more questions about her work, and she sensed a professional interest behind them. He draped an arm on the back of the sofa and leaned closer, nodding as if taking mental notes of her answers.

“Seducing men is a last resort strategy. The nail in the coffin,” she explained. “I investigate them properly before, I don’t take these accusations lightly.”

“Hmm. And do you feel it changed the way you see people, say in public, are there things you notice more?”

“Are you going to write a character based on me?” she teased.

He scrunched up his nose. “Ha, sorry.”

“I don’t mind, it’s… flattering.”

“Yeah?”

“You know, it has changed the way I see people.” She crossed her legs towards him, her toes nudging his leg. “I notice the signs of attraction between them.”

His stilled momentarily, as if afraid he’d been caught. “Like what?”

“Like little, casual touches.” She straightened his collar and smoothed a hand down his shirt.

“I see. Like this?” He brushed a stray curl behind her shoulder and returned his arm to the back of the sofa in a way that kept his fingertips an inch from her skin.

“Yeah, just like that.” She bit her bottom lip as her skin goose-pimpled where he’d touched her. There was something she wanted to bring up, but hesitated. “Signs of jealousy are a big hint too. Like, erm, the way Ellie reacted when I insisted on giving you the coat personally.”

Alec burst out laughing. “Ellie? You think she fancies me?” He laughed some more. “Nah, she’s just protective of her writers.”

“All of them or just you?”

“Most of them.”

Hannah disliked being wrong, but at least now she knew there was nothing between Alec and Ellie.

“She was wary of you because I haven’t had the best luck with women lately.”

Hannah tilted her head. “How so?”

A breath puffed up his cheeks as he rested his elbows on his knees. He appraised her with a glance, as if deciding whether he could open up to her.

“This job mostly,” he summed up.

“Writer? Sounds like a nice job for a boyfriend. Romantic, almost.”

He snorted. “I had a…girlfriend. Didn’t last long. She thought so too. But it’s not. It’s a real job with deadlines and pressure from my publisher and screaming at my computer. And then there’s frustration that just because I’m at home all day doesn’t mean I can run all the errands and cook and take Daisy to school. It’s a full-time job.”

“Daisy?”

“My daughter.”

“Oh. Guess you weren’t talking about your girlfriend just then.”

He shook his head and stared at his whiskey, swirling it around in the glass. “I was married. Fifteen years.” 

He swallowed the rest of the liquor and took their glasses to the sink. Hannah followed him into the dimly-lit kitchen. 

“Your ex-wife didn’t understand your job?” she ventured. Fifteen years, it had to be more complicated than that.

“It’s not just her. When I’m working, sometimes I immerse myself so much in the world I’ve created, it’s like I’m shutting myself off.”

He didn’t explain further, but he’d spoken like someone who’d contemplated the matter at length.

Hannah thought of the fictional town of Broadchurch and Detective Thomas’ love interest who had appeared in his three latest novels. Was it an espace for him? An alter ego who could live the life he couldn’t have and love someone else. A mental shelter to get away from reality. The same way Hannah buried herself in work when things got rough in her personal life. The way she’d filled her loneliness of the last two years with more clients and more employees. To her friends and family, she called it ambition, but deep down she knew it was a distraction.

She held Alec’s gaze across the kitchen, feeling like a thread had woven itself between their chests.

She leaned beside him, against the counter, and he uncrossed his arms, resting his hand next to hers.

“It makes people feel left out, doesn’t it?” Hannah said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s about finding someone who’ll make us want to let them in.”

He looked at her, something soft in his eyes. “That’d be nice.”

“All done here, ma’am,” the plumber announced, interrupting them.

"Just give me a minute," she told Alec.

It took more than a minute. The plumber wanted her to pay the full price even if his own repairs had caused the pipe to burst again. Hannah didn't cave in, and things got a bit heated. 

By the time the negotiations ended, Alec had left her house without saying goodbye.


	10. Chapter 10

Hardy left Hannah’s house in a daze. So high on her open display of interest in him, it wasn’t until he reached home that he realised he didn’t say goodbye. The argument with the plumber had gotten a little heated, but she seemed to be handling it well. Still, he should have stuck around. They could’ve been snogging by now. God’s sake, what an utter tube he was.

He tried to contact her a couple of times to apologize for leaving without saying goodbye, but she didn’t answer. It might’ve helped if he left a message, but he hated doing that with words he’d rather say to a person’s face. Then he remembered a few days later that texting was a thing. He weighed the pros and cons of giving in to hypocrisy (was leaving a text any better than a voice message?) or anxiety, and went with the former.

_Hannah, I’m sorry I left suddenly. Meet me for coffee tomorrow?  
_

He took a deep breath to calm his rapid pulse, then moved on to other things. Promotions had kicked off for his new book, and his publishing agent had set him up with a few television and radio interviews. He clicked through the related emails, but couldn’t focus on reading them. He tried to look through his notes for the self-indulgent novel he’d been working on, but it all felt foreign, like they were written by someone else. Every notification that lit up his mobile made him jump, until finally one of them bore her reply.

_Hi! sorry I’m travelling, will reach out when i get back xo_

His first instinct was to take her tone as amicable, but uninterested. A striking difference from the allure and innuendo she’d bestowed on him in her flat. She must have taken his sudden disappearance as a sign that he didn’t want things to progress any further. Shouldn’t his attempts to contact her prove otherwise? Unless she had additional second thoughts. It really had been awkward… That was it then. He rubbed his eyes and tossed the phone to the sofa to ignore it for a while after a quick reply:  _Safe travels._

///

The next morning, he woke to several texts from her:

> _So it was weird but I thought maybe I made you uncomfortable, definitely made the plumber uncomfortable haha_
> 
> _sorry if I came on too strong_
> 
> _I’m on a case and won’t be back for a week or more depending on how long this bloke takes to blow his cover_
> 
> _I’m used to men leaving anyway_
> 
> _I mean…. God i’m not making any sense_
> 
> _You must be asleep. Sweet dreams xoxo_

Hardy wondered if she’d had a few to drink, but recalled her mentioning that she refused to imbibe while on a case. Then it hit him--she was just as scared about this as he was. His stomach twisted into a knot of affection and longing as he scrolled up and down through her texts, which she’d sent after midnight. His attention settled squarely on one text in particular, the one about men leaving. He fired off a reply and resumed getting ready for the day.

_It’s not your fault. You’re one hell of a woman and I’m a nervous wreck, that’s all. I’ll find my courage and make it up to you when you get back._

That was the start of an ebb and flow of text conversations that spanned the days thereafter. There were greetings, how are yous, vents about the news or weather, memes about writing that managed to draw a chuckle. And yes, he knew what memes were. He supposed they could’ve talked, but it just didn’t happen. Their correspondence remained sporadic, unpredictable, even though the content slowly chipped away at the wall around him. Busy people with little time to spare.

_Where are you anyway?_

_How long have you been waiting to ask?_

She’d followed the husband of a new client to the French Riviera, but wouldn’t indulge him any further details—as a good detective shouldn’t. She attached a beach selfie with her latest text, and he stopped everything he was doing to take it all in. Waves of honey-blonde hair were splayed gently by a sea breeze, and her chin was tucked slightly toward one sun bathed shoulder. Beads of condensation gathered on the cocktail glass she held to her lips. He stared at it for a long time before realising he probably should respond. The come hither look in her eyes had successfully mesmerized him.

_Now I get why you do what you do._

He stared at his text after he sent it, fretting over how it sounded. So that’s why people used those awful smiley faces that made straight forward conversation into childlike hieroglyphics. But which one would he have used? Definitely not the winky face. He was not a winky-face kind of man. He groaned. It wasn’t even the first thing that popped into his head. He could’ve said he wished he were there with her, but he didn’t want to seem creepy. His mobile chimed.

_ikr :)_ _xoxo_

Daisy translated the text to him, and he slouched in relief.

Hardy went into the kitchen to make tea, but didn’t get far before his mobile rang. Heart leaping to his throat, he rushed to check if it was Hannah. No luck--his agent. He answered without hiding the edge of annoyance in his voice. A mom-and-pop bookshop hoped to set up an appearance in anticipation of his new book. They weren’t doing so well in the current economic climate, and unlikely to get a hold of him once it was out, so they wanted to at least get a nice boost in sales ahead of it. He agreed even though they were keen to have him read from the first chapter of the new book to garner more pre-orders. They must not have heard about what happened the last time he read aloud to his fans.

///

The day of the bookshop appearance marked almost a fortnight since he’d last seen Hannah. He vented to her about having to do it, and she’d joked about the hazards of being adored.

He was sat at a table in an open area of the shop, surrounded by stacks of previous books he had written. A poster board of the cover of his new book with pre-order information stood off to one side. Not many people showed up at first, which meant they had ample opportunity to pester him with questions he couldn’t answer about how the DI felt about various supporting characters. Ellie had explained this was the phenomenon of shipping, and he was best served not to get in the middle of it, though he wondered how she knew what it was.

Before long, a nice sized crowd had gathered. They buzzed with excitement over how the cliffhanger of the previous book would be resolved. One pair to his right were in a heated debate over why the series was named _Broadchurch_ and the meanings behind the names of the characters. He found it all endearing, but mostly off the mark. Another trio argued over whether the DI was in love with his DS, a prominent suspect, or his rival PI, while others argued over who committed the crime. It all felt a bit like they were gossiping about him not knowing he was sitting right there.

He looked up at the next person in line when they didn’t put down a book for him to sign at first. His heart stopped. Hannah stood there, suntanned and gorgeous, with a barely contained smile and a hard copy of one of his books cradled in her arms.

“Surprise!” A grin brightened her face further.

Hardy rose to his feet. The surrounding chatter went quiet. “Hannah. You… you’re here.”

She tilted her head. “Miss me?”

“I, um…yeah.” He shifted his weight and put his hands on his hips, then folded his arms, then put his hands on his hips again, remembering his promise to be braver. “Was it a success, then?”

“Yes, though that depends on who you ask.”

“Right.” He peered at the gathered crowd and felt a jolt of unease about what might be going through their heads.

A woman behind Hannah sighed impatiently. Hannah ignored her, but slid the book she'd been holding toward him on the table. Hardy slowly lowered back to his seat and opened the cover to sign it.

“I haven't missed the chapter reading have I?” She asked.

“Oh, God. You're not going to stay for that are you?” He handed the book back to her.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” She winked, and stepped away to peruse the shelves nearby.

Hardy tried not to watch her as he signed a few more books, but she remained in his periphery the entire time. She reached up to books on high shelves, her whole body stretching. She bit her lip as she pondered over which book she wanted to look at next. He noticed the erotica section before she even went there, and of course she found her way eventually. She distracted him with amusing book titles and tripped while trying to strike a pose from one of the covers. He tried not to snort while a woman told him what to write in her book. Hannah recovered after having a good laugh at herself that made a few people stare.

A peculiar urge began to overwhelm him. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to talk to her for hours and watch her lips move and hear the different inflections of her voice that gave away subtle emotions. He never wanted to talk to anyone. Though, it was entirely possible that his brain supplied him with a more public-appropriate substitute for what he’d really like to do with her for hours.

At last, he was given a few minutes break while the employees set up the seats for the reading. Instead of going into the break room as offered, he went to find Hannah in the classical literature section. She ran her fingers down the cover of a book that depicted a woman in a Victorian gown staring into a dark forest.

“That pose might’ve been less dangerous.”

She blinked from her trance and laughed. “Yeah, but what’s in that forest?”

He leaned back against the shelves and shrugged. “Something that’ll threaten her virtue probably.”

Hannah grinned like she wanted to keep up the banter, but knew he was short on time. “I can't wait to hear you read to us.”

He groaned. “I really don't wanna. I truly hate reading out loud. I don't know why I agreed to it.”

“Want me to?”

“Um, sure. If it’s possible, I mean, they might not like that.” He gestured to the seated crowd.

She pursed her lips. “Oh, right.”

His expression softened. “I'm sorry I left so abruptly.”

“You've already apologised.”

“But that was a text.”

She put a hand on his arm. “I'm a millennial, it's fine.”

He smiled and looked down. “So, ehm… How did you catch him?”

“So, like, this one was a piece of work. He had three women in three different cities, and I caught him with two of them in one spot.”

Hardy shook his head. “Men are shite.”

Hannah laughed. “Well, I had a little something to do with that.”

One of the shopkeepers approached them. “It’s time.”

Hardy nodded, then looked back to Hannah. “I’d, ehm... like to hear the whole story over dinner.”

A slow smile eased onto her face and her eyes softened. “You’re asking me on a date?”

“I… am. Yes. Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you.”

They both shared a laugh.

“I’d love that,” she said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

“Tonight then?”

“That works for me.”

Hardy went to read the first chapter of his new book to the patiently waiting crowd. It helped that he didn’t have to make eye contact with them the entire time, but when he did pause to look up, their rapt attention eased his mind further. Hannah caught his gaze more than once, and he trailed off sentences each time.

When it was all over, and he’d been thoroughly thanked and complimented by those gathered, Hannah approached him for her turn. She opened her mouth to speak, but another woman in a Doctor Who t-shirt jumped in to interrupt.

“Excuse me, sorry, Mr. Hardy, that was just wonderful. So, so awesome. Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come here and read to us. I just love your stories so much. They helped me through a really difficult time, you know, I can’t thank you enough. DI Thomas is a beautifully written character. I wish there were more men like that out there.” She sighed and wafted her hands at her face to dry her teary eyes. “I hope he’ll be okay. I’m really worried about that heart of his. I was just wondering, is he a bit autobiographical?”

Hardy smiled a little. “Thank you, thank you. Uh, I suppose they all are in a way.”

“Ooh yes, that makes sense. Anyway, thanks again.” She looked nervously at Hannah, and back to Hardy. “I’ll let you get back to your girlfriend.” She then scurried off to a group of giggling friends.

Hardy scratched the back of his head, his heart still somersaulting over the notion that someone thought Hannah was his girlfriend.

“Pick me up at seven? Or we could go now if you’re done here,” Hannah said with a cheeky smile.

“Now is perfect.”

///

The next morning, Hardy woke buried in a fluffy white duvet with a suntanned arm draped over his naked torso. Hannah’s shoulder rose and fell with her steady, restful breaths at his side. He stroked her hair and stared up at the lazy ceiling fan, allowing the blissful peace to drift through his limbs for as long as he could.

His mobile chimed. He searched the bedside table for his glasses, slipped them on, and grabbed his mobile to scroll through the various notifications that had compiled through the night. One of them made him flinch, causing Hannah to stir.

“What is it?”

“We made the bloody papers.”

“Huh?”

He showed her the headline on the screen--’ _Author Alec Hardy Finds Romance with Mystery Blonde’_ \--along with photos of them at a restaurant patio bathed in afternoon sunlight.

He tossed the phone to the bed. “Embarrassing.”

Hannah snorted and nuzzled into his neck.  “You’re officially a celebrity.”

“Thanks for making me interesting.”

She laughed more, and her hand drifted down to caress his abdomen. “That’s not all I make you.”

He watched her, his brain still catching up to his body through the fog of sleep. Then her hand dipped further down, and it caught up right away.

“You’re insatiable.”

Hannah kissed behind his ear. “Still want to make me into a character? Might need to change the tone of your books.”

He smiled to himself, eyes closed in bliss. “Don’t really need to anymore do I? Have the real thing right here.”

 

_fin_


End file.
